“Gentlemen,” said Buffle, “this feller sez I’ve got some uv his property, an’ he’s come here to prove it. Now, feller, wot’s yer claim?”
“A chain and locket,” said the man; “hang you, I see them in your hand now.”
“Ennybody ken see a chain an’ locket in my hand,” said Buffle, “but that don’t make it yourn.”
“The locket contains the portrait of a lady, and the inscription ‘Frances to Allan’—look quick, or I’ll shoot!” said the little man, savagely.
Buffle opened it, and saw Mrs. Berryn’s portrait.
“Mister, yer right,” said he; “here’s yer property, an’ I’ll apologize, er drink, er fight—er apologize, an’ drink, an’ fight, whichever is yer style. Fust, however, ef ye’ll drop that pistol, I’ll drink myself, considerin’—never mind. Denominate yer pizen, gentlemen,” said he, as the audience crowded to the bar.
“Buffle,” whispered the barkeeper, who knew the great man by sight, “he’s a littler man than you.”
“I know it, boss,” replied Buffle, most brazenly. “He sez he don’t drink.”
“Never saw him here before—there, he’s goin’ out now,” said the barkeeper.
Buffle turned and dashed through the crowd; all who held glasses quickly laid them down and followed.